


Bad Boys/Rebels/Shopping

by Zanne



Category: Glee, Leverage, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Pre-Series, Teenchester, prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-19
Updated: 2011-06-19
Packaged: 2017-10-20 13:56:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/213495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zanne/pseuds/Zanne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean finds the perfect parking space for his baby, but it apparently belongs to someone else. Thus begins the Parking Lot War.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Boys/Rebels/Shopping

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to randomstasis for agreeing to beta. Kripke, Devlin, and Murphy own all. (Originally posted: 7/16/10)

It was beautiful.

Dean had never seen a more perfect parking space in his entire life. The pavement was absolutely smooth with no cracks to mar his suspension, and the trees were an appropriate distance away, keeping his baby’s exterior cool and shaded without the danger of bird shit or leaves cluttering her windshield. One side was open grass, not a field that might carry the danger of a misplaced baseball or badly tossed Frisbee, but a smooth expanse of lawn that was meant for nothing more than a quick walk over and through. The other side of the space was taken by what looked like a school van that hadn’t been moved in months, probably there for mini-fieldtrips for the mathletes or something, so not much used at this time of year.

His first day of school in this backwater burg was turning out to be pretty damn awesome.

Dean smoothly slid the Impala into that perfect space, her engine purring in appreciation at this fine choice of location before he turned her off and readied to run the gauntlet. He got out of his car and gave her an affectionate pat on her hood, before turning to saunter towards the school.

His progress was halted not ten feet from his car when a short kid wearing glasses halted in his path, his eyes wide and fixed on Dean’s car. His gaze flicked to Dean and he whispered in amazement, “That’s Eliot’s space!”

The kid’s friend grabbed the smaller boy by the elbow and dragged him away, hissing sharply, “He’s new! He doesn’t know!”

Dean watched the two scurrying away, glancing at him over their shoulders, and wondered if all of the students here were that neurotic. His opinion was verified when he noticed other students pause in their walk towards the school to stare at his car and then at him, as if unsure of what to do. Dean shrugged and turned to move forward, stopping short before he ran chest first into another student.

The boy standing before him wasn’t all that tall, but he seemed to take up more space than his short frame suggested. His hair was long, hanging loosely around his square boned face, and his mouth was set in what looked to be a permanent expression of distaste. Behind him, parked haphazardly in the center aisle, was a classic Ford pickup; it needed a little sprucing up, but the frame was beautiful, a vehicle that showed loving care and attention. Dean gave it an appreciative glance before his gaze met with the boy in front him. The boy’s blue eyes blazed as he glared up at Dean and, if possible, he seemed to get broader under his jacket as he stated, his voice gravel rough, “I believe you parked in the wrong space. Please move your car.”

Dean gave him a cocky grin, knowing better than to take his eyes off his opponent, and said, “I didn’t see anyone’s name on it.”

With that, Dean pushed past the boy to merge with the crowd pouring towards the entrance, feeling the boy’s eyes on his back until the doors swung closed behind him. 

                                                                     ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The next morning, Dean headed for his parking spot, slamming on the brakes when he saw the pale blue pickup truck already in his baby’s place. On the asphalt in front of it, scrawled in bright green paint, was ELIOT’S SPACE, the empty Howard’s Hardware bag lying crumpled by the tire indicating its recent purchase. Eliot was leaning against the fender, the can still in his hand, the yellow price tag declaring SALE $1.00. As Dean paused to glare at the vehicle taking his baby’s spot, a small smile tugged at Eliot’s mouth as he growled, “Got a name on it now, don’t it cowboy?”

Dean just gritted his teeth and planned a retaliatory shopping spree. 

                                                                    ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Eliot was already halfway across the parking lot when the final school bell rang, streams of students spilling out of every possible exit in a relentless wave. He hummed a little under his breath, smiling just a little when he saw his baby parked in her space, welcoming him with a sparkle off her windshield.

But when he got to the driver’s side door, his smile disappeared, melting into that all-too-familiar scowl. His steering wheel was now adorned with something new, The Club crossing its diameter a bright, neon yellow. On the seat was a happy face key ring, with what looked like over a hundred keys attached to the large metal hoop. Eliot paused, turning slowly to scan the parking lot in time to see Dean drive by and give him a cheerful wave as he pulled out into the street. With an angry huff, Eliot snatched the keys off the seat through the open window, the obnoxious smiling face twisting in his hand to reveal it’s optimistic message on the other side.

HAVE A NICE DAY! 

                                                                         ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Each day progressed with more wildly random purchases designed to drive each other crazy. There was the time Dean came out to find his car proudly bearing a semaphore message along its antennae. The fact that he was the only one in the parking lot, aside from a few Eagle Scouts, that could decode the rather rude sentiment meant very little. Then there was the day Dean filled the back of Eliot’s truck with little plastic balls in primary colors, like the ball pits at Chuck E. Cheese. Eliot retaliated by attaching a strip of neon pink tassels around Dean’s windshield, which caused a vein that Dean hadn’t known he had to throb mercilessly in his temple.

When his father finally raised an eyebrow at the strings of Mardi Gras beads and feather boas Dean came home with one afternoon, all Dean mumbled was “School project”, which seemed to settle the matter. Dean began to wonder if this Eliot kid was independently wealthy, because this revenge thing was an expensive business, and he’d had to double time on the pool hustling to supplement his meager allowance for all of these shopping sprees.

Events evolved to far more intricate levels of one-upmanship within the month. Dean adjusted Eliot’s truck horn to belt out “La Cucaracha”. Eliot’s response was more subtle; when Dean unlocked the Impala, a car alarm blared across the school parking lot for twenty minutes until Dean could find where Eliot had hidden the control box.

By this point everyone in school, except for the administration, knew about the Parking Space War, though even the teachers had begun to wonder what all the ruckus was after school every day. 

                                                                                  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The final straw came on a Wednesday.

Nothing heralded the moment. It was a beautiful, balmy spring day, the sky a brilliant cloudless blue. The students swarmed out of the building, their laughter bright and happy as a few hours of freedom beckoned.

A panicked voice shattered the idyllic scene. “Where’s my _car_?!”

Most immediately thought the high-pitched shriek belonged to a girl, but the wave of students that swept back revealed only an ashen faced Dean Winchester staring at the space where he had left his vehicle that morning, Eliot’s large, blue truck now taking up the spot.

A murmur of voices spilled out behind him, some latecomers laughing about a car parked in the middle of the football field out back, and Dean’s eyes zeroed in on Eliot leaning so smugly against the grille of his truck.

“You. Touched. My. Car.”

Eliot shrugged dismissively.

“You. Drove. My. Baby.”

Eliot looked unconcerned.

“You’re _dead_.”

This caught Eliot’s attention.

“Bring it.”

The two boys went flying at each other, throwing punches and insults, and by some miracle, Sally Beckerman’s shoe, Andrew Jerman’s trumpet case, and Jill Westerhall’s Modern History project – a replica of the Eiffel Tower made out of forks and spoons that weighed nearly thirty pounds and had pulled her B- up to a solid A.

The brawl only managed to be put on hold with the help of several teachers, the cheerleading coach, and her cattle prod. 

                                                                                         ~~~~~~~~~~~

“I am _very_ disappointed in you boys,” Principal Figgins stated, frowning at the two miscreants sitting across from him. “Fighting on school grounds is an automatic suspension.” Here, the small man shifted in his seat, looking a little uncomfortable. “But as Mrs. Williamson took a leave of absence and we have yet to fill her position, I cannot find the appropriate forms, which just means that I have to get creative!”

He clasped his hands in front of him, tapping his index fingers against his mouth before he smiled in triumph. “I know just the thing! Wait outside for a moment, please.” He picked up the phone as the boys went to stand outside, glaring at each other across the office. About ten minutes later, Principal Figgins bounced out of his office door. “Follow me, boys. Your punishment awaits!”

The principal led both Eliot and Dean through the hallways, towards a room at the back of the school from which they could hear a lot of noisy chatter. Eliot and Dean glanced at each other before looking away, following Principal Figgins into the room.

“Mr. Schuester! I have something for you.” Principal Figgins pointed at the two boys behind him with a sweeping gesture, and announced, “Two more _enthusiastic_ ,” and this assertion came with a warning glare, “members for New Directions.”

A look of confusion traveled over Mr. Schuester’s face, and he turned towards Principal Figgins. But before he could offer a word of complaint, the principal explained, “We need to channel their energy towards something that engenders school spirit. Coach Sylvester offered to take the pretty one if he was willing to wear the cheerleading skirt, but we know how well that worked out last time, so I knew exactly where they should go. Good luck!”

Mr. Schuester turned to face his new recruits and smiled widely. “Welcome! Can either of you sing?”  



End file.
